


Like the words she never said to you

by OrTheNightEverythingChanged



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Clexa, Depression, F/F, F/M, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Modern Era, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Violence, clexa modern au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-02-02 13:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12727275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrTheNightEverythingChanged/pseuds/OrTheNightEverythingChanged
Summary: Clexa Modern AU«In a minute the ambulance will be here and we'll go to the hospital and the doctors will fix you and you'll live. You'll live.» And you believe it for a second. Only a tiny second that makes you hope you won't die with her «Then I'm gonna get you home and take care of you. And when you'll be better we'll make sweet, sweet love.»Lexa almost bursts into laughter when you say those words – actually she just crumbles, barely not fainting. But the look she gives you is the same of every morning. It's the same of when you wake up together in the same bed and start giggling like little girls.«It's not just sex? Since when-since when do we make love?»«Since the beginning,» you whisper, with a sheer smile «Sorry if I never told you.»





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! this is my first fic in the fandom - also English is not my first language, so please bear with me and my mistakes!  
> This story is pretty heavy, so if you're easily triggered, please don't read especially the future chapters.  
> For those who will read it, hope you like it :D

                                      

You never thought you could hate Fridays so much.

Yet here you are, Clarke, on a Friday night. On a desert roadside in the middle of nowhere.

Nothing's there. Not even the moon.

Lexa _is dying._

«It's going to be all right,» you whisper between tears while you try not to choke «You just have to hold on for a little more.» You gently stroke her cheek, afraid to hurt her even more «Help is coming.»

That's a lie, and you know it. Nobody's coming. Her mobile phone got lost in the accident and yours is just a black, cracked screen. Who killed you is burning in the pyre of their car. You pretended to call help just because Lexa wouldn't stop screaming. Now that she can't, though, you feel like utter shit – you feel like dying, again and again. Even more than how you already are.

Lexa coughs, and there's blood on her hand. Blood as red as the one soaking the other hand, the wound, the balled-up shirt that can't stop the bleeding.

«Clarke–»

«Shush» you stop her, and look back into her eyes. They're filled with fear, fear of a monster that you cannot slay «Save your energy. You can do this.»

«I'm-I'm dying, Clarke.»

_NO._

There's firmness in her fleeting voice, as if all were already written. As if she had already seen it.

As if it were obvious.

It's not.

_It is._

She's dying, Clarke. You know that since the moment you haven't seen her getting out of the car on her legs.

You can cry. It's natural.

«You're not dying,» you scream, and you break, again and again.

You're so lost you don't notice that Lexa's hand that should be keeping pressure on the wound went up to clean the tears and the blood that are painting your face. And it doesn't matter that you have a degree in Medicine and you save dozens and dozens of lives on a daily basis, at this point you are _nothing_. You just are _Clarke_ , and you don't know what to do.

«Don't be afraid,» she reassures you «Everything's going to be all right.»

«YOU'RE NOT DYING»you say louder, more desperate and desperate as the time passes «In a minute the ambulance will be here and we'll go to the hospital and the doctors will fix you and you'll live. _You'll live._ » And you believe it for a second. Only a tiny second that makes you hope you won't die with her «Then I'm gonna get you home and take care of you. And when you'll be better we'll make sweet, sweet love.»

Lexa almost bursts into laughter when you say those words – actually she just crumbles, barely not fainting. But the look she gives you is the same of every morning. It's the same of when you wake up together in the same bed and start giggling like little girls.

«It's not just sex? Since when-since when do we make love?»

«Since the beginning,» you whisper, with a sheer smile «Sorry if I never told you.»

She smiles too. And sighs. She seems happy.

«I've always known it.»

She closes her eyes.

«NO LEXA LOOK AT ME-»

She pries her eyes back open, and apologises. She's cold. You give her your jacket without taking your eyes off her. She smiles again.

«Go on,» she asks «You stopped where we make love.»

And you don't understand that she wants to die lulled by the sound of your voice. You don't understand but you cry anyway – and this time you're not ashamed – and go on anyway.

«What do you want to know?»

«Everything. Will it be beautiful?»

You nod, bite your lips, die a little more.

«More than anything else. I will be on top of you and will tickle you, cause I know that even if you always play it cool, you're just as scared as I am. I will cover every single part of your body with kisses, slowly, with devotion, taking all the time in the world. Because we deserve it.»

When Lexa closes her eyes again, you let her go.

She's shivering.

You sob, without shame.

«Our hands will be intertwined in the perfect joint we never needed to find. And we will love each other, and the rest of the world will disappear. And there won't be anything else but us and the shrinking space between us, and the sound of our kisses, our fingertips, our moans.»

You try to breathe. You fail. Tears fall down your face and land on Lexa's hair, getting confused with the blood and the asphalt. The sky watches you die, unmoved. For a second you ask yourself what there will be _after_. After death, after this godforsaken night, after someone will have found the two of you and will have saved only _your_ life.

You already know it, don't you? Do you know there will be nothing?

You go on anyway.

«When you'll come you'll do it quietly, without a noise, like always. Only a lament that will leave my name on your tongue – wrinkled nose and tiptoes – and my lips on yours, and a smile that will taste too much like a confession. Cause it's what I've always whispered you, you know?» you reveal, then close your eyes. The only thing tying you to this world now is her. And yet you feel her slip away from your fingers. And yet it's like you could see it, that thread that's growing thinner and thinner threatening to leave you floating, alone, in the void «While you held my head with your thighs and I made you bend your back and see the stars, and beg a god neither of us has ever believed in. I whispered you _I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you..._ »

When you open your eyes you get lost in hers, filled with you. They shine like tears, like a delirium, like the words she never said to you.

«Clarke,» she breathes. And watches away.

This time you are the one screaming her name, without emitting a voice. You see the light leave her eyes and scatter in the darkness of this pitch black night. But you don't even grab a spark of it. You shatter, cry, stay silent. You curse the stars and life, and death, and pain. And love.

Because you know it and it's driving you crazy.

This will be the only way you'll be able to remember her.

Dead, in your arms. While she calls you.

And she loves you.

                              


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so i got a lot of contrary comments on the first chapter. I respect all of your opinions. I know this is not an easy story, I know it's odd for a Clexa fan to write something like this, but I'm not gonna change it. I wrote this when I was in a really bad place and it helped me A LOT to just let it all out and face it. So now I'm posting it here becuase maybe someone needs it too, you know? Or maybe you just love sad stories :)  
> So yeah, this fic is dark. Please, read the tags before continuing, and if it's not your cup of tea, don't read it.

There are many difficult things.

Waking up, breathing, getting out of bed to pee. Folding the courtains when it’s morning to let the sunlight in.

Wearing a red dress – _the_ red dress, her favourite, the one you never had the time to put on before she started to rip it off with her eyes – when the world expects a black one and you just want to hide under the duvet and stop existing.

Listening to Led Zeppeling echoing in the room, the notes of your song piercing your head but you can’t cry because that’s how she’d want it.

Smiling and saying thank yous to the trays of food you won’t eat and the streams of words of condolences and occurrence that make feel better only the ones saying them.

And then the make-up, and the stiches on your arm that itch and pull and that you just want to eat away. And your mother holding you tight as if she ever cared about you – about the two of you. And the hospital that doesn’t understand why you say you can’t save life anymore after you couldn’t save her.

Because she was only a friend, wasn’t she? Your best friend, sure, but nothing more. People stared at you when they found out you fucked and yet weren’t together. When they found out you chose to

(pretend to)

not become attached to anybody because life had always thrown punches in your faces and loads of shit on your heads.

There are many difficult things, yeah.

But in the end, even if you scream and cry – even if you stay quiet and sleep and try to drown in the bathtub – those are all bearable things. You can get through them, you can survive. Your friends can hope one day you’ll open your eyes and try to smile to the ghost looking at you through the mirror.

Only one thing is impossible.

Using the past tense.

Using the past tense, as if you didn’t hear her voice every single, fucking day. As if she didn’t violate your dreams and you couldn’t sense her presence like the December wind freezing your lungs and your fingertips. As if you didn’t turn every time someone says something absurd, expecting to see her eyes rolling or the shadow of a smile lightening up her face.

As if she was actually dead.

Yeah.

Because in the end she _is_ dead, isn’t she, Clarke?

And in your future, you’ll always have to use the past tense.

***

It’s a weird funeral.

It’s a weird funeral because it doesn’t make you cry but only makes you want to die, and it’s weird because in the last seven days it has become a normal thought.

Wanting to die.

Wishing so hard you could go back in time and be the one on the driver seat that it breaks your breath and heart, and it annihilates you. But you can’t do anything about it.

You force yourself to eat under the implacable stare of your mother, and you want to die. You argue with Maya because you’re not going to buy nor accept flowers – _But a funeral without flowers doesn’t exist, Clarke! Don’t you think she deserves something beautiful, at least for the last time? –_ and you want to die – and actually you also want to punch her, because what Lexa didn’t deserve wasn’t surely a flower-less funeral. Even when you calm down, in the too deafening silence of your room, you want to die.

But when you wake up at night screaming in a delirium that is too much a memory to be only a nightmare, and you can’t believe you’re awake, and you can’t even spell her name, you don’t want to die. You can’t die. You have a major in Medicine and you’ve always known this kind of things.

Corpses can’t die again.

And you finally cry, legs curled up against your chest with no space for your lungs, and you shiver in the side of the bed that’s growing colder and colder and doesn’t carry her smell anymore.

It’s been barely a week and you’re already giving up. If she was still here, Lexa would hate you.

But she’s not here, isn’t she? She’s not here anymore. Lexa is dead. _Dead._

_ L E X AI SD E A- _

You get up from bed in a rush, shake your head, fall. The floor is cold against your cheek, as smooth as her skin and already wet with your tears.

You close your eyes.

You don’t need her alive to have someone who hates you. You are enough.

You hate yourself. Maybe you hate her a bit too.

You hate her because you love – _loved –_ LOVE her.

But you don’t hate yourself because you want to die. You hate yourself because you’re still forced to stay alive.

                                                

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to say that this is the English translation of a story I wrote in Italian. You can check it out here https://efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=3518233&i=1


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: depression, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, an almost suicide attempt. If this kind of things can trigger you, please please don’t read. Your well-being is so much more important than this fic.

It happens on an empty morning.

The sun refuses to shine, projecting on your skin pale, light spots through the sunblind. It’s a trembling, cold, vaguely grey light. There’s only a memory of the world sinking in your mind of which you can’t even grasp the outline.

You have no idea what day is today, don’t you?

An important day.

Any other day.

But.

The freezing glass of the window is now warm against your thigh. The chipped cup is still cold, the dry coffee grounds painting an obscure destiny that nobody can read. You hear the alarm ticking from the bedroom. It echoes softly, without annoying the ears, without violating the silence between a _tick_ and the other.

You breathe only in those moments. With all your lungs, struggling to get some air. Just a little more. You shiver. But your heart is calm and beating regular in your ears.

You emerged on the surface.

You’re alive.

_ But. _

But you don’t know how much time you’ve spent drowning. You don’t know how long you sank, nor how much deep, not even how you made it back to the surface. Did you hold onto something? Or did you just float back up with the inexorability of a corpse – swollen limbs and livid lips?

Maybe you’re still sleeping. Or maybe you’re actually dead, and this abandoned house is some sort of foggy waiting room for the afterlife.

Always if there’s something, after.

_ You already know it, don’t you? _

_ Do you know there will be nothing? _

You almost hope so.

_ But. _

But your face is the one of a spectre. It’s your usual face. Shadows dance in your eyes. They colour your face and never apologize. Chapped lips, hair up in a messy bun pushed against the wall, dirty shirt that you haven’t changed in days. Freezing toes. Protruding collarbones and ribs. A hunger that stays quiet and devours you politely, from the inside, chewing without making a noise. The omnipresent drowsiness that won’t leave you alone nor let you sleep.

~~ And then she, everywhere. ~~

~~ And yet nowhere. ~~

How long have you been here, Clarke.

How long have you been elsewhere.

How long have you stopped noticing.

It happens on that empty morning.

There’s only you, and the cold passing through the window, and the chipped cup the alarm ringing and the drowsiness the hunger the noise the surface of the water shattering against your neck and calling you, calling you, calling you, taking you, inviting you. _Come back down here. The world is better seen from the abyss._

There’s only you and the razor blade on the bow window right next to your frozen feet.

Your palms are webs of red lines for how many times you picked it up without even feeling it.

You’ve been here for too much time, Clarke, twirling precariously on the edge of life.

But it’s not enough, isn’t it? Not yet. Not yet.

You just need a moment. That tiny moment in which everything will be clearer and you’ll find the strength to do what you’ve postponed since you buried her, alone, without nobody on her side. There’s nothing else. You even know how deep you’ll have to cut to sever what you have to without a chance to come back.

It’s surreal. It’s not far off. Finally, all those hours spent saving other people’s lives – saving everybody, everybody, _everybody_ except – will save you as well.

Your bent shoulder will rest and rise, spreading out like wings. Will you fly higher than the sky, Clarke? Or will you dive towards the centre of the world?

You won’t pretend to smile anymore.

You will sleep.

At least for a night.

Forever.

When you pick it up for the last time, the blade is already tainted with your blood. You could almost paint a picture, red on white, like a bride with a bouquet of roses. You’ve written the letter for you mother with blue ink instead. A few words, no I’m sorrys. You know she’ll cry but you can’t feel any pain. Raven’s one is black, as black as her name-

~~ The one for her is hidden under you head, under your pillow, where you always intertwine your fingers, both pretending to be still asleep. ~~

There are already some scratches of your nails on your arms. You just need to follow those lines, letting your hand carve a little more, just a little more, to start breathing once again-

Your phone rings startling you. The blade bolts away, hits the window, falls to the floor. It leaves on your skin a hesitant kiss.

_ No. _

You pick up your phone with terror. It’s with the same terror that you open the text message from Raven, praying _no no no tell me no please no no no NO_

She’s early.

She’ll be here in five minutes.

While you have to «get that fat ass up, cause I’m not gonna wait for hours on your closed door, thank you very much, we have to go P-A-R-T-Y»

The phone slips from your fingers.

Raven’s five minutes could not be enough.

In five minutes, you only have the time to cry and hide everything.

In five minutes, you can only postpone.

You get up from the bow window, stumble, pick up the blade from the floor. You clean with fingers and spit the little spots of blood that got a bit everywhere. You wrap your arm in your t-shirt not to get anything else dirty, you take the letters, go through your flat almost running and hide in the shower. Raven knows where the spare key is hidden.

You open the water and let yourself get frozen, washed, numb.

Tonight will be cold enough to justify long sleeves.

It’s alright

_ You just want to die _

You can postpone.

When you hear the doorbell ring you squeeze your eyes not to let the tears fall.

But you don’t see Lexa, watching you from the door with crossed arms.

             
             
             
       
             
             
             
         


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many of you would like to read a sort of prequel fic about Lexa and Clarke's life together?


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I disappeared. Life kinda got in the middle.  
> Read the tags before reading this chapter, and feel free to skip it if it's too much. I know this is hard thing to talk about.

Time passes.

Minutes, hours, days, months pass, and you pass them in bed sinking always a bit more – every time a bit more – into the void.

~~ Only Lexa doesn’t pass ~~

But you already know that.

She’s always there, watching you. She doesn’t talk. A ghost with eyes but without mouth. Although Lexa _has_ lips, warm and oh so soft, made only to be bitten and kissed–

But in the end you know exactly why she doesn’t talk.

She’s afraid.

Afraid of you.

It’s on a February day when you try to deprive yourself of the only thing you’ve left.

Your life.

Sinking into an abyss has never been sweeter.

You’re losing your own life, Clarke, don’t you feel it?

No, you don’t feel it.

You fall asleep.

_ The first time you see her is during Octavia’s wedding, and Bellamy and Raven owe you twenty dollars each. I mean, it was pretty obvious that the older Blake would have started crying accompanying to the altar the sister he’s raised like a daughter. You have no idea how Raven could have not predicted it. _

_ You’re sitting at the open bar, sipping a cocktail you don’t like waiting to be allowed to go away. You’re happy for Lincoln and Octavia, of course, but weddings have never been your thing. The complete lack of trust in the institution doesn’t make you the most pleasant guest. _

_ «Glad I’m not the only one, then» someone says. _

_ Did you really say it out loud? _

_ When you turn to face the voice, your eyes meet the ones of a goddess. _

_ A goddess. _

_ Your mind can’t find other words to describe her. _

_ «I’m Lexa, by the way» _

_ Lexa. _

_ You breathe her name, let it tickle your tongue, you taste it, savour it. You smile. _

_ You like it. You like her too. Maybe a bit too much since she’s just a stranger. _

_ You don’t care. _

_ You close your eyes, and the two of you are in bed, and she’s on top of you. And her kisses are too sweet to ever be left without them. Hands searching for each other. Teeth crashing, undoing your bra. Teeth biting your skin and leaving marks that you will caress the next day, and the day after that, until she will be back to make some new. _

_ It’s funny, it’s without commitment. _

_ You feel nothing. _

_ Yeah. _

_ Nothing. _

__

__

At some time you wake up.

You’re Dead, Clarke, can’t you feel it?

No, you can’t.

Just like you wanted.

It’s a small afterlife. Four walls that look like they’re drawing nearer and nearer, a plastic chair so uncomfortable you don’t even have to sit on it to know it and a small window with the sunblinds down. It’s an afterlife made of sounds and smells more than spaces and celestial visions. Steady _bips_ too far one from the other to be seconds. Unknown, hurried strides, carts dragged unwillingly behind a door you haven’t located yet – behind a door that maybe doesn’t even exist. A vague scent of death with a hint of disease, softened by the disinfectant that they use in the hospital where your mother works. In the hospital where you worked, too, before.

Do you remember it? You’ve always loathed it. Every time you went in at the start of a shift a wave of nausea used to hit you so hard you could barely control it. No matter how many times you tried, you never got used to that smell.

It’s funny that you find it here, now. It seems almost a joke. It seems almost a nightmare. It seems almost that–

_ No. _

You slowly open your eyes, afraid. Lexa is still there, watching you from against the wall. Long hair travelling down to her waist, beautiful like the first time you saw her.

You don’t cry.

You’re alive.

But you don’t want it.

And you don’t hear Raven realizing you’re awake and bursting into tears, wrapping you in a tight hug. And you don’t see you mother coming to say hi with tears on her eyes and trembling lips, your mother who always saw you as her biggest success, who always saw you as the woman you probably have never even been–

You don’t hear.

Don’t see.

Don’t eat.

Don’t live.

You have an IV attached to your arm preventing you from going back in the void. You have doctors coming to see you every day, filling you with empty words they probably don’t even believe in. You have Lexa watching you without saying a thing, from her corner of the room, eyes maybe a bit darker than you remembered.

You’re starting to forget her, you know that, don’t you?

Even if you have her in front of you every single moment.

The sound of her voice.

Her crooked smile.

Her long legs that never ended, and her frozen feet that always bumped against yours under the duvet. All those Sunday mornings spent kissing each other and talking about nothing, just breathing, and loving, and living.

You’re forgetting everything, lying down in that hospital bed.

Because time passes, and you pass with it.

~~ Only Lexa doesn’t pass ~~

Or maybe she does.

When you realise it, you cry.

The doctors talk about a step forward. You’re slowly coming back to life, Clarke. You’re expressing your emotions. You moved your lips, and screamed her name while sleeping. You kicked and kicked and fell from the bed, and cried, cried. Cried till your eyes became red like the blood dripping from her shirt. Cried till the nurse came to save you, to sedate you, to let you go back into the void you long for. Cried till your mother came to rock you back and forth, back and forth, tears in her eyes and whispers on her lips, slow and circular movements that finally calm you down.

«I loved her, mom»

Those are the first words you say in months.

The words you never got to tell her.

The words she never told you.

The words that both of you already knew.

And Lexa, silent, from her corner of the room, smiles.


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everybody's doing well in these spring days. I'm so busy I can't even breathe sometimes.  
> Here's the new chapter!

When you come back home, your apartment is empty. Empty like you left it. Empty like you. You put the keys on the furniture in the hallway and invite Bellamy and Raven in. Bellamy has in his hands the few things you had in the hospital, while Raven came just to make you feel at ease. You go to the living room, sit on the couch, stare at the black tv screen and at the windows with the sunblind down. The sunlight filters through the holes creating rainbows in the flowerless glass vases.

Lexa stares at you from the coldest corner of the room. She stares at you with her bright eyes piercing your skin and digging through flesh and bones till they get straight to the centre where it remains whatever’s left of your soul. She looks at you and says nothing, and waits for you to look back.

You’re almost, almost tempted not to.

But you can’t.

Your apartment is silent. _Your_ apartment. Not your and Lexa’s. Just yours. There are photos everywhere and your paintings hung without frames, colouring the walls with thousands of wonderful shades. You look at them too, sigh in front of the Clarke that once existed but that will probably never come back. You don’t care much.

Actually there are only a few things you care about. There is Raven and Bellamy, and Octavia, and your mother, the memory of her. You’re not there.

But it’s okay. The doctors said it will take time.

Who knows how much time.

~~ Forever ~~

No, not forever, Clarke. Just some time. Even if it seems hard now. Even if it seems impossible.

That’s what drives you crazy, isn’t it, Clarke? Time. Time that passes and inevitably cicatrize the wounds. It scares you to death. The idea that one day you’ll wake up and you won’t suffer that much anymore. The idea that one day you’ll wake up and smile for real at the world and at life, and you’ll try to move on. Without her.

You don’t want to move on.

You _can’t_ move on.

Yes, you can, Clarke. You just have to figure out how.

One step at a time. One minute at a time. Without her.

Raven turns the coffee machine on for the three of you, always silent, always without saying a word. Your friends look at you and are scared to talk. Scared that a word too much could trigger you, scared that a sound too much could make you fall back into delirium. They take it easy, like everybody does. They are afraid ~~of you~~ for you, Clarke. They’re afraid for you. Even if you’re not.

A part of you knows exactly what’s going on. _Depression_. Clinic term to state the black hole that has swallowed your soul. Maybe a bit of PTSD too. Seeing the love of your life dying in your arms can do bad things to you, yeah.

The love of your life.

Lexa.

Bellamy sits next to you, puts his feet on the low table in front of the couch, starts talking about the weather. About the cold. About his job at school as an history teacher. He took the day off to get you home. Raven did too – Sinclair never makes her problems about this kind of things, but she did it nonetheless. The doctors said it would be better this way. _Make her go home with the people she loves_ , they said, _She has to learn how to live again. One step at a time._

_ One minute at a time. _

But you’re tired of counting one minute at a time.

One-two-three, four-five-six. Seven-eight-nine-ten. A minute seems almost infinite. It seems like a whole life, a whole life spent on the couch watching the walls of a house made for two in which you will have to live alone.

What a scam.

Fifteen-sixteen-seventeen-eighteen.

Raven takes three cups from the credenza in the kitchen and pours the coffee, and gives you a steaming mug. You take it between your hands mechanically, breathe in the smell that for all these years has brought you back to life with patience, every morning.

~~ The smell of her ~~

Thirty-thirty-one-thirty-two-thirty-three.

Raven gave you the chipped mug that Lexa always made you keep cause she liked the pictures on it. Two dinosaurs in love sharing the same cup of tea.

And it’s stupid, the most stupid thing in the whole world, but it breaks you. Again and again. You put the mug on the table and get up, waver a bit, but you manage to walk.

«I’m tired» you say, and go towards your room – just _your own_ room. And you lose Raven and Bellamy sharing a glare for infinite, desperate moments, and they say nothing, till Raven nods and stands up from the armchair.

Forty-three-forty-four-forty-five-forty-six.

Lexa follows you in your rooms, where nothing carries her smell anymore. Not even she smells like her. She just smells of spectre, and memory, and something you can have no more. You tried to talk to her, once. You screamed at her to do something, _for fuck’s sake_ , to show herself to the others too to let them know she’s not dead.

To let them know you’re not dead, Clarke.

You’re just hidden somewhere, crying.

Fifty-seven-fifty-eight-fifty-nine-sixty.

One minute at a time.

Lexa sits next to you on the bed, she lays down when you do so. She raises an arm to gently caress your cheek.

You close your eyes.

You don’t feel a thing.

_ One minute at a time. _

One ghost at a time.

You cry.

                     

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are reeeeaally appreciated <3  
> Have a good night!


End file.
